The Funeral March
by TwentyFourCookies
Summary: Jesse lives through another death... How will he cope, without Suze by his side? JS, plus Paul tags along to say goodbye.


Disclaimer: Oh please, you all know the truth…

The Funeral March

It all seemed so clear, back when we were younger. When time had just given up and allowed us the life that I had always wanted for her, for us.

_Oh, Susannah, now don't you cry for me, 'cause I come from Alabama with this banjo on my knee_

The song had been the first thing that bonded me to the young girl that walked into that room, so many years ago. Such a name… Susannah. I had not heard such a name since my first time, since the song.

Susannah. It seemed so natural. So her. _She_ was natural-in fact, my _querida_ was beautiful. She glowed, even in the harsh thing she wore-that old leather jacket, something of her "gang" days, so she'd tell me.

"Gang" days… Susannah would laugh every time she said that, grinning in that perfect Her way.

Oh, Susannah. Why now?

_I had a dream the other night, when everything was still. I thought I saw Susannah, a-coming down the hill  
_

For the greater part of my existence, I have dealt with, no, _been _a ghost. I have known all sorts of tragic endings, all sorts of stories, all sorts of farewells… my own included.

But this one, this story, this farewell… this, I believe, is the hardest for me.

My father had been the first to go. He was old-full of regrets, full of sadness. My mother, my sweet, wonderful mother followed soon. And then… and then… one by one… my sisters, the little girls that I would pinch and tease… they too grew and died.

Yes, they were indeed dark days. But this… Susannah, this hurts more than I thought it ever could.

If I am a mediator, Susannah, used to dealing with death and sorrow, why am I crying now?

_Oh, Susannah, now don't you cry for me, 'cause I come from Alabama with this banjo on my knee_

Please, wait Susannah-please. You have already left me here-do not abandon me there, I beg.

Looking up I spy a tall figure in a dark jacket I do not remember…

Wait-who is…

That man, standing by the priest…

_Nom de Dios_…

What is Paul Slater doing here?

He is older now, much older, like we all are. His hair is white-skin wrinkled. I look down to my own hands. They too, like Paul's, have aged. But still…

Why here, why now?

This boy-this man-looks up, and his eyes flash. "Jesse" He nods.

"Paul" I reply. I had been about to say 'Slater', but we are old men now. If we cannot put the past behind us now, then we never shall.

Besides… Susannah…

_It rained all night, the day I left. The weather it was dry, the sun so hot, I froze to death. Susannah, don't you cry_

He comes towards me, then pauses, looking down at something behind him. I blink, surprised. A little boy, no older than eight, peers from behind him, very much the image of what I suppose his grandfather would have been at that age.

"This is Cal" Paul says, nudging the boy out from behind him. "My daughter-Anna's-son"

The boy looks down at the ground, holding onto a single white rose.

I am perplexed, among my grief. Why here, why now to come along and drag up the spirits of old memories?

Paul's eyes look tired. "I came because I read the announcement in the obituaries" He pauses, and clears his throat. I realise then that he is also grieving, and I feel jealousy run through me. Susannah was never his to love or lose. "She.. she… was a fine woman, Jesse" All this is said while Paul looks me in the eye, and I can only nod. "She was"

It is then that the boy, Cal, steps forward and gives me the rose. I glance up at Paul-his eyes are glittering now, and not in the malicious way that I was used to seeing.

We stand there in silence. We have said our civil words now. There is nothing more to say. _  
_

_The buckwheat cake was in her mouth. The tear was in her eye. Says I, I'm coming from the south- Susannah, don't you cry_

The service ends, and soon the crowd moves away, a dark mass, down to their cars and other transport to the house that Susannah and I called a home for sixty years. Called. It is no longer as warm as it once was.

I stop by grave, holding the single white rose the boy gave me. Throwing it onto the coffin, I crouch down, and choking, I sing the song that first bonded me to my _querida_. _  
_

"_Oh, Susannah, now don't you cry for me, 'cause I come from Alabama with this banjo on my knee…_ _Oh Susannah, now don't you_…_ cry… for…"_


End file.
